


all night, a hundred years

by heatherandochre



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, i am not lying about the smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22648669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherandochre/pseuds/heatherandochre
Summary: Staci looks across the bullpen and thinks oh.Or, Staci gets a clue and Temperance considers becoming a crazed mountain woman.(Or, or: the most smut I've written in a year or more???)
Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge/Staci Pratt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	all night, a hundred years

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what made this whole fandom look at staci pratt and think 'this man is best described by a billie eilish song' but here i am literally the fifth person to use lyrics from lovely ft khalid as a title
> 
> THINGS TO KNOW:
> 
> Temperance is my Deputy from I Will Be Here and this is the Best Ending where she never fucks a Seed because that is objectively a Bad End even if it's subjectively a great idea. She is:
> 
> \- in her late thirties in this fic  
>  \- a divorced ex-stripper with a bio-chem degree  
>  \- very messed up from a childhood in a restrictive family/the patriarchy  
>  \- face claimed by zazie beetz, who is awesome
> 
> Do you need to read I Will Be Here? No. If so only the first chapter. Should you? IDK man it's free internet content do as you please. There is no smut though. Sorry, the Preacher didn't want bone down.

By the time he's thirty-one, Staci has mostly gotten himself figured out. 

He's grown out his hair. Committed himself to three times a week at the gym. Gotten dumped so thoroughly and harshly people actively apologised to him on the street. He figured out that skinny jeans got a little awkward on him -the one and only time Joey has ever looked at him like he might be something other people could be in to. 

He plays in a local baseball league and eats too much pizza. He's a little too good at his job to do it in Hope but fuck if he's ever moving. He even read a book and cleaned his desk up so Temperance doesn't spend her Thursdays compulsively doing it for him and everyone else on staff icing him out for being an ass, even Nancy whose iron grip is based on gaslighting whoever is in her bad graces that day. It's always Temperance, the choice is on who goes down with her. 

Speaking of: it's Wednesday which means it's Joey-fines-John-Seed day. Nancy is on call ready to phone through the legalities for whomever she likes more today and Temperance, who usually leaves before two because she finds it all painfully childish, is still doing paperwork at her desk, here to console Joey when John slips through her fingers again. 

It had taken him years to figure out that Nancy and Temperance's Cold War wasn't mystical feminine bullshit but two women standing on opposite sides of a divide. Nancy had the cheekbones of an old movie star and she'd never worn a pair of flats in her life. Temperance had a little container of solid perfume he'd once thought to buy her as a surprise until he'd seen the price on a fancy Soho boutique website. She dabbed it habitually: two to wrist, two behind the ears, one to low cleavage. This, of all things, was what pissed Nancy off so much she 'forgot' to change Rook's order to soy.

Nancy was scared. She was scared that she was watching another version of her waste away in a place too small to be what she needed. She'd wasted fifteen years with a piece of shit who'd tried to grind her down into nothing. So she got to grinding first, lower Temperance's expectations first so the casual rejection of life didn't break her. Passive-aggressive, underhanded but ultimately well-meaning. 

His Rookie was famous for having  _ none of that shit. _

He's thought it was some southern debutante shit but Rook had blinked at him and said she grew up in New York, the state, not the city. She had an impeccable bullshit meter that she used with precision. It's her fourth best quality, mostly because he keeps rearranging one through three.

Staci is idly considering inviting her out for drinks, fiddling with his pens, when he catches a look at himself in the reflection of a filing cabinet. Recently cleaned its shine is enough to light fires off of let alone show a tired thirty-something, something he hadn't considered before. By habit, he reads the expression, the body language. How he would write it in a notebook:  _ Tired, physically in decent tick but could stand to lose about five-to-ten, getting a beer gut. Comfortably working class with a thin thread of grey at the temples. Stressful job, but laughs a lot, look at those crows feet. He's looking at a woman who isn't looking at him with just the fondest eyes like he's got the whole day worked out now- _

Look's at Temperance O'Hare and her dimples. The thick hair she keeps back with a Hermes scarf. The deep cherry-brown lipstick that costs more than he spends on groceries in one go. He thinks  _ oh shit.  _

Staci sits up in his seat. Oh. Shit. 

“Oh, fucking  _ finally, _ ” Joey growls. “It’s only been six years.”

“What?” When did she get here? “I haven’t-The fuck, Joey, you can’t say that to me-”

Joey gives him a long disgusted once over. “I am not getting involved in this.”

“Do you have a ticket to serve to the Seeds?”

“Staci.” Joey softens. She's probably a little lower on Nancy's shit list today. “Don’t be an ass about this, okay? You both deserve to think it through.”

"It's not a thing." 

Joey gets sly. "Yeah? Look that  _ thing  _ she had with Jacob Seed was clearly only physical, but there's the Whitman boy who just sold out of the marines. Also that cute waitress in Missoula. That barber-"

Staci comes over hot then cold. His palms sweat.

Joey's grin drops. "Oh."

It's not just that he wants to beat Jacob Seed to death. He wants that all the time, even when it's not related to people he cares about. He'd hated all of her partners even when they treated her well. Temperance's own baggage means she doesn't take care of herself, ignores red flags and puts her own needs last. He hates all her partners because they don't fucking care enough and oh god he should quit his job.

Staci puts his elbows on his knees and groans into his hands. Joey leaves him her mostly full water bottle and gives him a brisk pat on the back. "You're already one better than the rest: she trusts you enough not to just smile and lie."

Staci groans even more.

Temperance looks over, wry worry in her eyes.

Staci mouths, "Drinks?"

Temperance flashes him a hang loose sign.

_ Shit.  _

\--

The Spread Eagle has been background for a lot of memories for him. There's Whitehorse's non-mandatory but deeply advised bi-weekly work dinner. Mickey had skipped three in a row until Whitehorse, coffee in hand, stood by his and Staci's shared desk four in the morning, said,  _ do you know what this is about, son?  _ Not even Joey running at her absolute hottest misses more than two. 

He nearly got engaged here -she'd bought a ring and a trailer without telling him, happy to hitch it to his car or hers but if it was hers it'd be heading to Missoula. They'd been dating maybe four months. He's broken up a fight what feels like every forty-eight hours but is informed is more like once a week. Mostly over who gets to slur increasingly unhelpful bullshit at Mary May's cleavage. Birthdays, divorces, shooting regular shit -he's done it all in here.

Staci raps his knuckles against the wood of a familiar booth. It'd taken him three months to get the Rookie to come to drinks. By coincidence, everyone else had found something else to do last minute and he'd been by himself. Temperance walked in fifteen minutes late, a sharp blush on her darker skin. She’d had what she later admitted was a fancy blanket wrapped around herself like some sort of fashion-witch from New York. Her hair had been up, messy, and she'd forgotten to put her make-up back on so he'd seen the worry and the want to belong. She'd been biting her lip. He hadn't liked her much in the beginning, shared Joey's  _ too city too pretty  _ opinion. But she'd surprised him.

It'd been despite himself. He'd wanted very badly to dislike the new hire. It'd been about proving himself. Being a  _ man.  _ The last he'd heard Whitehorse had been looking at a guy from down south or Seattle. Big men with bonafides, not a cheerleader who'd barely broken in her shoes. 

He'd expected her to burn out. Instead, she'd done just fine. Probably should have realised three months in, when she'd ordered the only expensive whiskey but compulsive scrapped the paper off his beer bottle that she’d stolen the second he’d finished with it. She’d made it a game to scrap it clean before he finished the next one, covered his tab so she could keep challenging herself to do better. When she’d been called out for making a mess of Mary-May’s table, too late for anyone to be safe to drive and she’d carried off her apparent long-con of paying off a patron’s tab when she got the next beer.  _ Because I have the money, Staci,  _ she’d said, with a flick of her fingers to take the glue off,  _ and no one got that money the good way.  _

Or when Rook had solved the ever-escalating nonsense of Eden's Gate by arriving and being herself. That she'd developed some strange relationship with Joseph Seed on contact. Two people on the same wavelength but Temperance better able to hide the magnetic black hole that drew people in and kept them under her palm. When she had, offhand and very clear-eyed for how drunk they'd been, said that people mistook whatever she had for beauty and she liked to oblige them by  _ just  _ being beautiful. She'd walked off for another round and he'd been pleased right down to his toes that she'd said aloud  _ to him  _ what they'd been thinking since she'd arrived. 

Or that four times a year, every three months, Rook and Mary May get wasted at the Spread Eagle, Grace behind the bar with her gun, and dance themselves stupid all night. It is a fixture on the town calendar -some for the undisputed town beauties doing body shots and others for the fucking shitshow the men make of it. Staci starts chewing antacid three days beforehand just to get through the anxiety and then shoves coffee on top so he has the energy to beat the handsy pieces of shit who think they'd  _ ever  _ have a shot. Earl stopped letting him work the shift on account of the sudden spike in accusations of police brutality.

_ Fuck  _ he's so  _ stupid.  _

Well. Hopefully, he can add one more memory. 

He waits until after they've had the chef's special for dinner. Temperance is nursing a glass of whisky kept just for her, not that she's noticed. Staci has a beer, discreetly non-alcoholic, an addition for the large range of people who don't want to give up Hope's social life while they try to stay on the path. "You been up to O’Hara’s new installation?” He takes a sip. Actually pretty fucking good. 

“Creepy O’Hara we’ve jailed for soliciting the nice working girls over by the highway?” Temperance asks. 

“Yeah. His brother or something is running one of those immersive horror wilderness things. He pays people to run around pretending to be zombies and shit and you have to survive the night while completing a checklist. Joey said it was bullshit, but I think she’s just pissed Grace beat her.”

“That sounds like Joey alright.” She snorts. Temperance calls Joey  _ Firecracker  _ like it's a hate crime. Joey calls her  _ Princess Elsa  _ when they snipe over after-action reports. “Sure. Think we can get a law enforcement discount? Maybe Earl’ll let us do that for team building instead of that fucking thing in Missoula.”

“Great idea. Keep it in the bank,” Staci leans back, projects comfort he doesn't feel, “but I meant just us.”

“So you, too, can get Joey- _ motherfucking- _ Hudson levels of mad when I beat you? Uh-huh Stace, that’s a stitch-up.”

Staci stays chipper. “He does have these luxury cabins. You go out for a couple of hours, shoot the workers and then go warm up with room service. It’s currently couples only.”

“You think he’ll make an exception for us? None of the O’Hara’s like us much on account of,” she waves her hand, to indicate the mess of the Jessop’s and the O’Hara’s and their general horrid criminality that ended with Rachel Jessop under armed guard for nearly eight months while her shitfuck of a daddy went to jail far away from Hope County. “The Rachel thing. We could go halfsies, I suppose. But I will not be sleeping in the bath.”

If things went well no one would be. “I was going to pay for it out of my own pocket.”

“Were you now?” Temperance's eyes narrow. He’s treated to the flash in her eyes, the first sign she’s worked things out. “It would be mean of me to put you out for so much Staci. I’ll pay my half.”

“No.” He doesn’t get the feeling that she’s saying  _ no,  _ god knows she’d just say no. “But you’re right. It’s a bit much. How about a picnic past Shoehorn. Saturday.”

She leans back, fingers twitching against the table. She still hasn’t said  _ no.  _ He has to trust that she would, that she would know that he’d  _ take  _ no, or all this is doomed from the outset. She curls her lip. “I’m all Saturday’s this month.” 

"What about next Tuesday? We're both off."

“Stop.” Temperance’s eyes are wide. “Enough already Stace.”

“I’m trying to-”

“You’re being unkind.” She bites her lip and turns away. “This isn’t- This is mean spirited, Pratt, come on.”

_ Pratt _ . That sets him back on his heels. He hasn’t been Pratt since week one. “Sweetheart.”

“Not that sweet.” Temperance looks behind him and smiles. “He-ey Mr Boshaw, think I owe you a drink.”

Staci places a hand on her forearm. She stills under the touch, sharp dark eyes swinging around. She’d stand here all night if he didn’t let go with the sort of person, the sort of friend, the sort of woman she is, and he’s so stupid for not picking it up earlier. “We’re not done talking about this.” He removes the touch.

Her arm flexes, her fingers. “Yeah, we are. It’s a non-starter.” 

Staci waits at the table for fifteen minutes before he realises she's already left. 

\--

She ducks out the back and drives home without paying. Mary May knows she's got more money than sense, anyway. She takes off her leather jacket, pulls off her boots, tears her jeans off and throws them across her living room. 

Then she quietly drinks a glass of water and screams, “What the fuck!” 

He was  _ never meant to figure it out.  _

Some other idiot would call themselves all kind of stupid for falling for a small-town golden boy with a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. But, fuck, Temperance knows bad people. She’s related to some real monsters, and she’ll take the idiot boy who thinks she’s funny and not a PTSD riddled psycho any day of the week. But if he wasn't into her when she was thirty-four and in revenge body mode why would he suddenly be interested five years later when she'd had enough therapy to be okay with aging and losing the  _ charming beauty _ that had kept her safe all her life? She'd stuck a pin in it, mournfully thought about it on rainy mornings when she had the time for a vibrator, but otherwise swallowed the disappointment. The pin had become a box and then a shelf and then a whole closet full of things she was in love with and too sensible to think loved her back.

_ So what the fuck was that? _

The only solution, really, is to move into a Prepper cabin and never talk to him again. Clearly the fucking collapse is here and it's time to get underground. That makes far more sense then the thought that he just woke up, in love with her. Just worked it out and said  _ hey why not?  _ How absurd. How stupid. What wishful fucking thinking-

Staci Pratt walks in the door.

"I gave you a key?" She shakes her head. "Clearly I deserve this."

He brandishes some beer. "Talk it out with me."

“Rather not.”

“Uh-huh.” Staci's face is set in  _ pissed off  _ but he keeps looking at her knees like he's never seen them before. “Cool to stick these in the fridge?”

She doesn't drink at home. “Sure.”

“Cool. So, Temperance, none of that was a  _ no. _ ”

“You need a no?”

“From you?” Staci walks around her low slung furniture, walks so he rounds her the long way, gets the long look. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. When he gets to the fridge he pauses, silent, at her boring regimented prepped meals. “Kinda, yeah. Not like I haven’t put my life on the line for you. And vice versa.”

“I-” she sighs and goes to pick up her pants, throws them near her washer-dryer in the kitchen, “this is a bad idea.”

“Not a no.”

“You should go.”

“Not a no.”

Temperance puts her hands on her face, pushes her wrists down to cover the ugly, ugly expression she’s pulling. “I figured that you’d figured I was too old-”  _ too weird, too fucked up,  _ “for yo- this. For this.” She sucks her teeth and makes herself cheerier. “Rude to make a woman talk about her age.”

“Sweetheart.” Staci opens his arms. “Come here.”

Fuck him. She's done that after every hard night, every violent arrest, after the campers went missing and they had to explain that bears didn't give a  _ fuck _ about the horror of losing children to their grieving parents. She's opened her arms and let him hold her because she's a sap and a moron and a-

"Rook." Staci shimmies in place. "Still waiting."

"I," she turns away to her backroom, her bedroom she'd renovated by hand to prove she could, and throws over her shoulder, "am going to change. Have a beer Staci if you really want to have this conversation."

He whistles at her lace covered ass because he is, at heart, a bitch. 

She does have a shower because she went from a double to the bar, but it's quick even with the shampoo she shoves in her hair. She takes her time on the way out. Lean's her forehead against the steamy mirror unable to help staring at the little bespoke Duckie in a green shirt that greets her every morning. It wasn't Staci's gift but he told them about her ridiculous baths. Her self care. 

Fuck. This. 

She pulls on her matching pyjama set and knocks open the door already talking. "Okay. Okay. So first off, we work together-"

"Are you okay?" He's sitting on her couch with his feet on her grandmother's table- God if she loved him less-

She huffs. "Staci, you're coming very close to getting a slap on the wrist for interruptions."

"Well, I was always chatty." Elbows to knees, he rolls on to his feet. "Say no to me, if you mean no, but we've been working together for years. I know you. I know some of your shit. I'm always going to love you, care about you. Either way."

Her teeth  _ ache  _ from grinding. "Stop kicking the ball back to me."

"'s your ball." He burps. "Excuse me."

What the fuck even is he? Temperance laughs. Then she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and screws her courage to the sticking post. "I love you. This is a bad idea. I'm not going to say no."

"Come here." 

She’s reminded of Peaches, the cat, in the way that she slinks over. Bitten and shy, ready to leap away if things get too dicey. Staci is a bitch and he knows she loves it so he tips his hand forward Peaches-proper and makes a  _ here kitty kitty  _ motion. For that she all but tackles him, turning and using momentum to get them up against her wall. If she’d been thinking more she wouldn’t have worn the little peony pink button-up sailor suit. She’d have picked one of the camisoles or teddies hiding under her sweater collection. Staci pinches the silk between his fingers and murmurs something about her taste before he casually pulls it off. Okay. maybe it didn’t matter. 

They come to the strappy dove grey and lace bralette she wears to bed. Habit after one too many times of being called out with no time to do more than pull on her pants. “Is this a bra?” He shrugs the bralette off and thumbs her wide, dark nipples. “I did use to think about what kind of underwear you wore.”

“Calvin Klein. I get a huge package sent by my sister every couple of months.” Black and marled grey. No point to anything more day to day when she was nursing sore hopes. She turns her voice sly and thoughtful, to keep the weird sadness of that thought at bay. “I have some date lingerie.”

“Shit? Really?”

“There’s some classic La Perla, a few from Agent Provocateur but mostly indie brands- You ass-” he pinches her nipple, hard, “and some custom stuff when my sister does a piece on being thin and rich.”

His cute nose wrinkles. “Your sister with, uh,” and there’s the eyebrows. It’s nice up close. 

“Chastity. Was with The New Yorker.” She slips her fingers under his shirt, at the rim of his jeans. Presses against the thin line of hair there. “What about you, huh. Got anything fun under there?”

“No, but it’s yours anyway.” His eyes drop from hers to her breasts most likely and her pebbling skin, but his voice drops too. Deep and real. He means it. “It’s for you.”

She swallows and tries to keep how that hits her off her face. 

She kisses him to make it stop. His mouth is beer-warm and scratchy -she needs to make him exfoliate. The whole thing hits her like a freight train. She feels the scratchy sad part of her she left to slow mornings dissolve and catch fire. She’s here, now, having what she thought would never happen. Oh, it hurts. It actually  _ hurts  _ she wants it so badly. “Give me your hand, sweetheart.”

He grumbles  _ sweetheart  _ but hands himself over anyway. Temperance traces his palm for a moment, presses between the divide of his fingers. Then she slides her pyjamas open and slots his hand between her legs hoping to relieve the ache. 

“Fuck me.” He hisses, palm grinding forward before he tilts it back to see the wetness slicking his palm. “Oh fuck  _ sweetheart _ .” He puts his hand back and doesn’t protest when she tilts her legs up and tries to get it where she needs it most. She moans, throws her head back for it. Her pyjama’s go, honestly,  _ some _ where, who  _ cares- _

“Come on Rookie.” He presses his mouth up against her ear. “Come on,  _ come  _ on  _ now _ .”

She does. Arches up on to her toes and pulls him down with the strength she pretends not to have. Her hips twitch, muscles unhappy with her until the pleasure pools, explodes and floods out of her. 

“Goddamn.” Staci wipes his wrist absentmindedly on his shirt. “Well, upsy-daisy,” he flows to his knees and throws one of her legs over his shoulder and gets to cleaning her up.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she pushes on his head but he is in fact broad enough in the shoulders to render it largely pointless. His tongue swipes along her inner thighs, up and along the soaked ridge of curls she keeps trimmed. He pushes her leg up and out a little to really get his head in, pushes her other leg out so he can kiss the scrap of skin that’s always darker under there. “Hey, turn around.”

“No rimming on the first date.”

He leans up to nuzzle the top of her slit. “That was like six years ago, sweetheart.” He sticks his tongue in, to taste.

_ Fucking hell.  _ “No rimming unless you’re happy to return the favour.” His other hand comes up to press her hip open, to bend a little so he can open his mouth and press sucking kisses to her clit. He stays there awhile, long enough for the sounds to drift up. Her breathy little exhales, the wet slide and slurp of his mouth on her cunt. Her hips begin to jerk again, little muscles in her glutes seizing up and he leans off.

Staci laughs against her skin, against the press of her still jerking hips. “Fine by me baby.”

“Oh no, not unless I know what you’re eating first.” By long habit, she gets her breathing under control. "You have such terrible eating habits I find it so stressful." She gets both her legs on the floor again and cradles his head in her hands. He leans back happy as a clam with his cum slick mouth. 

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Not all of us can meal prep." He presses into her palms for a moment, presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist then stands. 

She rolls her eyes. "Ye-es we can." She leans up to kiss him chastely. For herself, to centre herself with him. "I got Whitehorse to do it."

"Shut up." His returning kiss is a lot filthier. “Don’t bring Whitehorse into it.”

"Maaaaake me." 

He shrugs his shoulders, a  _ well if you want  _ gesture she recognises from the old vets Staci pretends he doesn’t admire. He pulls her by the hand towards her low slung couch and sinks onto his back. Temperance thinks about it for a moment and then climbs on to sit over his middle keeping her weight steady on her own thighs. Staci pats his chest and then his mouth. She’s thrown for a moment before he pulls her hips and brings them closer to his mouth. 

“Staci I am not light,” she chides.

“You’re hot as hell Rookie.”

“This isn’t me having a moment this is me reminding you I can crush a watermelon with my thighs. You were  _ there. _ ”

Staci just says, “fuck yeah,” and pulls her closer.

“You’re so fucking stupid.” But they shuffle around so he can get her legs around his head. “Fuck me that’s-”

It’s  _ weird.  _ It’s hot and good and  _ weird.  _ No one ever went down on her for longer than it took to get her wet enough, fine by her, her psychology led to a deep kink for providing service and very little for receiving, but this was-

Pressure, first. Solid pressure all the way to the bottom of her cunt. She feels his beard scratching her up and swelling the sensitive skin. His tongue went back to its work pressing and forcing inside a place that wanted it very badly but she couldn’t get out of her head enough to let him into. Want was so old as to occasionally get new again if only for her surprise that it was still true. Want, she could handle. She was struck by the thought that she might never have had sex with someone who  _ liked  _ her.

Staci grunted, seemed to gather the wetness up and suck it down. He shifted so she had to press down harder, got his hand on her ass to help then dipped a single finger into her. She arched up, all the way off for a moment, long enough for him to say  _ jesus christ your tight  _ before he thought better of it and pushed her hard to lie on her back.

He braced her down with his forearms, kept her legs open and covered her clit with his tongue. She’s never thought of herself as  _ easy  _ perse. She just doesn’t think about it. It’s not even that he’s that good. He’s  _ good  _ but she’s seen girls after someone has truly and honestly fucked them hard and put them away wet and by technique, this isn’t it. It just feels- For her it’s like-

She hits the roof again with a shout. More mess everywhere. 

“I think that might be enough,” Staci says from somewhere very far from her. Temperance forces herself to breathe, to come down, but she can’t quite grip it. Staci hums. He rolls her nipple for a moment, gets a little mean with it to watch her breath speed up, but seems to only catalogue it as a  _ thing  _ about her. He presses his knuckles to her rapidly rising and falling sternum. “I’m going to get a condom.”

“You do that,” she wheezes. 

Staci gets up, pulls off his clothes, gets her a glass of water and rolls on his condom, more or less in that order. They sit for a moment, her on her back and shiny between the legs. Him naked with his erection bobbing between his legs. It's funny to see his little beer belly and hairy thighs in this context. They pass the water between them which gives it a strange after taste but honestly, she’s two orgasms in she doesn’t get to complain.

“One more then I’ll fuck you?” Staci says with the blase attitude that had him labelled  _ a fuckboy  _ for oh so many years. It doesn’t land differently now, exactly, but Temperance knows deep down that he wouldn’t fuck with her head like that.

“I’m fine now.”

“Yeah, no,” his smile is somewhere between  _ wry  _ and  _ aggrieved _ . “I’m still a little insecure, here, Temperance. I’d like there to be no doubt that we’re going to Shoehorn on Tuesday for a picnic, and to the O’Hara trail to hunt Sharky in a zombie costume and back to the Spread Eagle, where you ditched me  _ without paying _ because you didn’t want to tell me you loved me.”

“To be fair to me,” she wheezes again, for a different reason now, “Mary May knows I’m good for it.”

“Uh-huh, sweetheart. On your knees for a second.” Staci helps her up and to her knees. Feeds her the last of the water. He loses the thread of things for a moment cradling the side of her face, thumb sweeping over her lips. She feels fuzzy and wrapped up in his affection. If she was any closer to the surface it might bother her just how floaty everything is, like that shit they tried to get started down in the Henbane. Bliss. 

Staci leans back, seems to gather himself, says, “Good.” he wraps a hand around himself and agonizingly pulls up from the base. She can see the beads of pre form at the tip. She licks her lips. He laughs at her for that.“I’ve got your number sweetheart. Sit still for a second.”

She thinks he’s just going to make her watch but he growls  _ need a better look  _ and tells her to lean back on her palms in a strange version of camel pose. Her knees go out letting her cunt fold open to the rooms air, her head tips back at first so she only hears the meaty slap ok skin against skin. Smells a little of the plastic on the condom floating through the air and wonders if it’s flavoured. She feels her sweat cooling on her body making it colder, her nipples harder, her cunt throb harder. 

She looks up. His eyes are blown open and ravenous, greedy. It feels a little like the shit she knows he pulled when he was younger, that she heard about third hand from the small group of similar-aged women that sometimes hung out together. Self-centred and obscene but kind of hot, if only for how much of a douchebag you had to be to do it. His breath picks up a little as he looks from the soft fold of her stomach to the downward slope of her breasts. He groans and she leans forward for it, towards it-

He stops. “Okay. Good. We’ve established that.” 

“Huh,” her eyes are still trained between his legs. She feels a little glassy like she wouldn’t be able to recount what happened just now with a gun to her head. 

He laughs and kisses her, tucks his hands in her hair. She crawls up him, slow, the sexy feline way she used to make money off of. She places herself gently in his lap like she’s the best present ever that only  _ he  _ gets to unwrap, rolls herself up for vanity’s sake and goes to bring this all home. 

Staci frowns. “I said three.”

She presses the head of him to her entrance. “We can do three.”

He swallows. “Are you sure?”

She pushes down and lets him in. His face twists and contorts. Like, his nostrils flare and his mouth goes in two different directions. His eyes roll back a little and she realises she’s learnt something very intimate about him. He’s got  _ dumb sex face  _ all the way through not _just_ at climax. He looks a little like the girls in the porn that the Rookie after her used to pretend was  _ totally normal. _ What was it fucking called - _ igloo, algeoo, aheago! That’s it!  _

It’s so fucking ugly she starts laughing.

“ _ Thanks _ ,” Staci grumbles, hooking an arm around her so she doesn’t fall. Temperance leans into the brace grateful for the respite of pressure, the promise of more and the little tremulous laugh she’s pulled out of him. “What about my ego, huh?”

_ Oh, ego.  _ She slides back down the whole length and lets her body take its natural shape. A little of the pole-girl in the bend of her spine. A little of the debutante in the way she closes her eyes. She starts slow, grinds down, and plays her hand across her pelvis. Teasing, not going near her cunt because she knows, from his little hitched grunts and the restless way he’s moving his head back and forth that he really, really,  _ really  _ wants orgasm number three. She has the space to deny him without getting hurt for it, so she does. Fucks herself nice and slow the way they both know isn’t going to get her off. She even starts to sing  _ la la-la la- _

“You’re an asshole.”

She sings louder. Staci shifts them a little so he can get the balls of his feet flat and then it’s  _ on.  _ She keeps singing and laughing and singing louder and he keeps telling her what an asshole she’s being and how pretty she is and how badly he wants it. Time gets weird, ground down to the connection of their bodies, the press of her hips down and his up. She lets him take it and her, leaning forward to hook her chin over his shoulder as he fucks it out talking in her ear the whole time like  _ that’s it there we go this is better than you thought, huh? better with me, huh? I know it is come on come on come on come- _

Her hand circles hard and fast on her clit as she comes. 

He’s not quite done, though. Slows pace again until her twitchy body is over sensitive and clenching irregular. She bites down on his neck now and says nothing. _Kinks,_ and all that. She wants him to use her to get there, some primal proof of what she is to him. Of actually being ll the way fucked. Her breathing picks up a little and between Staci’s own _that’s right, that’s right, yes_ she hears her own voice beg through _use me use me use me._ He comes hard. Bellows. Pulls her back a little at the end, still pumping for it and kisses her full on the mouth.

The kiss breaks. The room smells  _ damp.  _ She whines,  “There’s going to be so much washing.”

“Mmhmm.” His head goes back but he makes no move to separate them. "So am I a better fuck than Jacob Seed?"

She grins into his shoulder. " _ Such  _ a bitch."

**Author's Note:**

> And then there was nice aftercare and they had a serious conversation about making things work. Whitehorse wakes up in a sweat, knowing that his fortunes have turned and someone is going to make him do complicated paperwork. 
> 
> Smut brought to you by a) 'damn what if Staci's sin is Pride bet he'd be really annoying to fuck' and b) these horny little shits who could have gone another thousand words like I don't have better stuff to do. I literally finished I Will Be Here and when AO3 was a fuck about updating I wrote two thousand words of fucking so that's the energy for this decade. When a website doesn't work, write porn. The End.


End file.
